Harry went to bed early, but he couldn't sleep. Not properly, anyway. All he could think of was a dementor swooping down on him (looking vaguely like the boogeyman from old cartoons he'd seen, since he hadn't the faintest what they actually looked like), and sucking his soul out from between his lips. What would it feel like, feeling the wisp of everything that made you who you were, everything that made you human, escape into the scabrous, sucking maw of a nightmare? Would you realize that your soul had just snuffed out like a birthday candle? Or would it simply be the end and your body would collapse, boneless, a shell of who you used to be, nothing more than a fleshy husk of a person?

They were not the kind of thoughts that made for a peaceful night.

Inside, Tom was furious. He knew Professor Snape was not a kind man, was not the sort of man who would tuck in his first years and wish them pleasant dreams, but for the love of all that was sacred, he wished the man would bloody think before answering his students' questions. That kind of information was best left for another year, another time, not given willy-nilly to an impressionable eleven-year-old who already had far too many nightmares swirling around in his shattered brain. From his own fragmented days at Hogwarts, Tom recalled that the students were not usually given information about the Dementors until at least third or fourth year. The only mercy he could afford Harry was not letting him know precisely what they looked like.

Not that anyone truly knew what lay under a Dementor's hood. They only lowered them when they were about to perform the Kiss and the victims of that were, shall we say, unable to solve the mystery. Tom shuddered. Even though as Voldemort, he had used those creatures to his advantage, lured them to his side with the promise of whatever they wished, they'd still unnerved him. They desired nothing more than to feed off happiness, off human souls. To rip the light free until there was nothing left but darkness.

It was in a muddle of these dark thoughts that Lily finally managed to push herself past everyone else.

The five-year-old girl had had enough of being kept inside and patted on the head like an obedient dog. It was boring inside. She didn't even get to peek out like she was accustomed to doing, because Tom and Jay were afraid that others would notice the childish tilt to their head, or the way she sometimes lapsed into a lisp. It wasn't fair. She deserved to know what was going on, too. And despite what everyone else thought, she knew she had to be circumspect.

Thus it was that she clambered out of bed on cat-silent feet, retrieved her dolls from the very bottom of their trunk, and climbed back into bed with the curtains drawn round tight again. Tom had put a locking spell on them, but Lily didn't know how to replicate it. And she didn't want to ask him, either, because then he'd stop his ceaseless muttering about something that sounded really dark and scary and make her go back inside. The thought that he might actually help her never crossed her mind.

At first, Lily stayed quiet as a mouse, only mouthing the various inanities she presumed her dolls would say. She only had three, but they were precious to her. They'd been carefully scavenged from the trash bins and then dutifully cleaned up to be presentable, and one-an old-fashioned faux-porcelain doll-had actually been swiped from a toy store when they were nine. Jay had been the one to do it, of course, his palms sweating at the thought of the proprietor noticing him stealing such a girl's toy. Lily had cherished it from the moment she saw it, clutching it tightly to her and barely able to let it go, even for the necessary times it had to be hidden. If the Dursleys knew they had dolls lying around, they would be destroyed instantly and Harry would be ruthlessly taunted and beaten for being so unmasculine.

Other things would happen to Harry, too, in that eventuality, shameful, secretive things in the dark of night, but of course, Lily had no inkling those things ever happened. Those times belonged to Kitten, and Lily knew better than to peep out when Kitten was the one fronting. Tom had made it very, very clear to her that there were times, dangerous times, that Lily needed to stay inside and not make a peep. Most of those times were at the Dursleys.

But now they were at a new place, a school place! And she'd always been allowed out sometimes in primary school. Usually when they had art, because she could draw better than Harry anyway, and she really liked it. It was fun drawing with crayons and markers and later on coloured pencils and charcoals a bit, too. Sometimes the teacher would smile at her and praise her work and even though the teacher had to use the wrong name, Lily still cherished each word.

She wished she had a drawing pad, too, but she didn't think Tom had remembered to bring one. And she didn't know how to use a quill. So instead she sat loosely cross-legged in the middle of their bed, dressed in their oversized pajamas, with her special doll (named Annabelle) at her side, and having the other two, a rag doll and a plastic Barbie knock-off, carry on with an imaginary tea party. Lily didn't realize that she'd been getting a tiny bit loud, particularly with her giggling, until she heard a loud snort from the bed next to her, and someone turning over.

Instantly, she froze, her eyes rounding in panic. Oops. She wasn't supposed to make noise! What if someone saw? She very cautiously tipped back until she was lying down, albeit on top of the covers.

"Harry?" a sleepy murmur came from the other bed. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Lily whispered back, trying to sound like a tired eleven-year-old boy. She didn't know how well it worked, but at least no further inquiry came from the other side of the bed curtains.

"Too close," she whispered to herself in her customary lisp and put the dolls under their pillow. Tom or Jay could put them back in the morning. She was awfully tired and the momentary scare had taken even more of her energy.

As their body slowly relaxed and fell asleep, none of them knew that Blaise still lay awake, pondering the enigma that was Harry Potter.